


Five Down Low

by JaqofSpades



Category: Glee, Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Muscle wanted. Must have friends in low places, and the ability to talk your way out of dangerous situations.” No one's ever wanted him for his brain, so this just might be the perfect job, Puck thinks. All he has to do is make it to the interview, survive his first day, and keep well clear of his sexy boss and her scary boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Up?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts), [msred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/gifts).



> This started as story for the Noah Puckerman Big Bang but the Big Bang was cancelled and I've given in to the urge to serialise because I'm having such fun writing this. But because it was a Big Bang I actually have not one but two marvellous betas on this one: you can thank ghostcat and msred for their help with grammar, characterisation, continuity and the like.

He's late for a job interview, and he just knows his baby is gonna get towed because he had to park in the red zone out front. So when the elevator shudders to a stop between floors four and five, instead of kicking or cursing the way he normally would, he gives in to the urge to laugh. Face it, Puckerman, he tells himself. You were not meant to get this job.

When he looks up, the tiny blonde that had walked in ahead of him has one eyebrow hitched high in question. Yeah, he's gotta sound like a madman, but he’s inclined to cut her some slack. She's fucking cute.

“Been a bad day,” he explains with a shrug.

“And it's only 10am.” She keeps it light but he's been in California long enough to know what it means when a chick pulls on her Valley. Bitch. (Her lips pull into a mocking pout and he gives her the upgrade. _Hot_ little bitch.)

“Got up at four, but the surf was flat. I was outta fuckin' bacon. Got stopped for speeding on the way over here. And I'm gonna get a ticket – if we ever get outta here!”

She shivers at that and the dude behind her looms into focus, huge arms looping around her in a reassuring hug. He's a beast in tattoos and leather, short but broad, and Puck hasn't seen a stare like that since juvie. Don't go thinking you're the badass here, it reminds him, and yeah, not arguing. Guy might be a whole head shorter than him, but he's got fucking scary written all over him, and the sensible thing is to take a step back, push himself into the corner and look away.

He sneaks another look to catch the guy whispering in her ear, all soft, and running his hands up and down her arms, gentling her. His fingers trail slowly over her pale skin, and the contrasts have him mesmerised - dark on light, rough on delicate, black leather wrapped around white linen. 

Puck drags in a deep breath, wondering if they’re already running out of oxygen. Gotta be some sort of delirium. He slides to the floor, spreading his legs and hanging his head between them. The overhead light is starting to flicker, dimming by the minute, making the too-small box feel even tighter.

Doesn't explain his hard-on, though. That's all them.

She's all in white, a tight skirt that ends at her knees and a jacket to match, as if she's a lawyer or some other useless suit – the fancy kind. He whispers into her ear and they slide down the far wall together, sitting on the floor opposite him, almost in mirror image. Except she's falling into his lap, and his hands are drawing slow circles on her hips now. Hypnotic, Puck thinks, and his mouth falls open. He's not even pretending not to watch.

Listening, too, and it's not quite what he thinks.

“It's okay, mama. We'll be fine. This old thing stops and starts all the time – any minute now, V. Just breathe. Breathe with me.”

The rapid rise and fall of her chest tells Puck she's breathing a bit too damn much – hyperventilating because of anxiety, or a full blown panic attack? It's not a paramedic's call, usually, and even if he was qualified to make it, he hasn't got one goddamn thing to help her out. All they can do is keep her calm.

“She's hyperventilating, dude. She needs to calm down.”

The surly Latino looks his way, face managing to be completely blank and totally mocking all at the same time. Oh. Yeah. That was probably what he was doing, now that Puck thinks about it.

 

*

A noise wakes him, and he forces his eyes to focus in the dim glow of the emergency lighting. It wasn't a nightmare after all - he's still stuck in this goddamn cage with the scary dude and his bitchy (hot) girlfriend. Who made the noise, he realises. The amber light is more a pinpoint than a beacon, struggling against the darkness in every corner of the elevator, and all he can really see is light on dark – the shimmer of her hair as she throws her head back, the curve of her ass in that tight, white skirt. His hands, settling her over him as they grind together.

“Quiet, baby,” he hears. “Sssh – need to fuck you,” and Puck's suddenly profoundly thankful for the low light. It's obviously shrouding his half open eyes, or they've just assumed he's still asleep, because she's nodding her head and kneeling up so scary dude can yank her panties down.

The half dark is full of rustles and rips and harsh breathing, and he just knows the moment she sinks down onto the other man's cock. It's half moan and half whine and without a doubt the sexiest noise he's ever heard. He's so hard it hurts, and _fuck_ that. He needs to come.

Puck doesn't even try to be stealthy as he unzips, fisting himself even before he's free of his boxer shorts. His hand is dry, the position is uncomfortable, and he can't really see them. He doesn't have to.

The orgasm hits so hard he's left wondering if he's emptied every last brain cell into his sticky, slimy hand. He slumps back against the wall and smiles.

No one ever wanted him for his brain anyway.

*

He wakes to an earsplitting screech and then the whole thing lurches, propelling him across the floor to land in a tangle with the other inhabitants of the elevator.

“What the fuck?” Puck moans, and then freezes, because Latino dude is shoving him off them, while the little blonde simply moans.

He's crushing her leg, Puck realises, and scrambles away, trying not to kick the girl in the process.

“Sorry! Fuck, I -” he runs his hands over her ankle and slowly palpates her knee, checking for damage. She simply blinks at him, but her boyfriend starts to growl.

“Can it, caveman. He's making sure he didn't hurt me,” she tells the guy. “You didn't. Not permanently, anyway,” she smiles ruefully, and that glimmer of sweetness flings him right back to fuck, this girl is gorgeous. So as per usual, he brings the stupid.

He glides his fingers over her ankle, and rotates her foot a little, then slides them up her calf. “Still. I feel I owe you a massage or something.”

She settles back into her boyfriend’s arms but levels her gaze on him. “After your little peepshow? You owe me much more than that,” she coos.

Puck can feel himself blushing. Maybe he hadn't been as invisible as he thought. He shoots a worried glance at the Latino dude, wondering why he still has the use of both legs, and receives a long, hard look that puts him on notice. Do the right thing, and he might just walk out of here. Puck gives a cautious nod of agreement and wonders what the fuck they might consider the right thing.

“Don't worry, boy. We'll go easy on you,” the tough guy drawls, and he's gonna go mad if he has to sit in the dark trying to figure out if that's a promise or a threat.

A series of thumps and bangs outside announces the arrival of the cavalry (or perhaps they'd been there a while and he hadn't actually noticed). The doors crack open a fraction, a watery line of light brightens the interior to the point where he can actually see their wicked smirks.

Great.

“Stand back, please!” a disembodied voice says from outside, and Puck picks the corner opposite his tormentors to shelter in. The blonde looks at him, and raises an eyebrow. “So you're shy now?”

“Sensible. Ma'am.”

She leans her head back against the dude’s chest and smiles. “Probably wise. What do you think, baby?”

He relaxes into the position, his hands coming round onto her hips, fingers sliding under her shirt to draw patterns on her belly. Puck wonders if he should look away, but after last night … and besides. He's right fucking there, and they're the ones not behaving themselves.

“The policy of being too cautious is the greatest risk of all,” the dude says, and watches Puck watching as he slides his hand up under the shirt to pluck at her nipples.

She moans her approval. “One of your Greek poets say that?”

“Nah, Nehru,” he answers. “The Greeks would be all ‘fuck some sense into the boy, Weevil'.

Puck's is still trying to figure out exactly what that meant when something pokes through the small gap in the doors and wrenches them apart, leaving all three of them blinking into the fluorescent glare.

There's a small crowd of people on the other side – tenants of the building, he expects, and there's a smattering of applause as they stumble out into the foyer.

“How long have you three been in there?” a skinny dude with the most anxious face he's ever seen asks nervously.

Puck looks at his watch. “Just short of twelve hours, man. Not sure whether I want to piss, eat or sue first!”

It's a joke, but this is California, not Ohio. The man goes white and presses his business card and $200 into his hands. Turns out he's the freaking super. 

“Make it a nice meal. On me! Call if you need anything else,” nervous guy gushes.

“Not gonna help much with my job interview,” Puck says snidely, then shakes his head. “I need to eat. I'm outta here.”

He looks back to see what Blondie and her boyfriend are up to, but they've already cornered the dude, wanting to know exactly why no one answered the emergency alarm. He can hear her flaying dude alive with that sharp tongue, and yeah, Puck's not about to interrupt.

He’s halfway across the lobby when he glances back to find tattoo dude watching him. He offers the guy a cautious nod, and is surprised when he gets one in return. It could mean “thanks for spying on me and my girlfriend” or “I’ve decided to hunt you down and eat your liver,” but Puck’s gonna go with the likeliest explanation.

Respect. One badass to another, he smirks, then has to fight back a smile as he steps out into the street. 

*

Tuesday, and he's back there again. He parks legally this time, and takes the stairs. Right on time too, he thinks, staring at the frosted glass on the door with the subtle silver lettering. Classier than he would have expected of a private detective's office. But then, he's here to see someone called Veronica. She'll hardly be wearing a trench coat and chomping on a cigar.

He opens the door, and rings the bell on the counter.

“One minute,” comes a voice from behind the closed door. He sinks down into the comfortable couch – it's more like ten minutes – and starts to climb to his feet when he hears the door click.

Maybe that's why he doesn't see her face until he's got his hand out, ready to shake.

The bitchy little blonde from the elevator. V, he remembers her boyfriend calling her. Veronica Mars.

His life, man.

She grabs his hand with a smirk, one eyebrow cocked high, waiting for him to react. He can't. He's busy remembering the way she gasps and moans, and yeah. No words.

“Noah Puckerman, I presume?” she says, and he nods, forcing his vocal cords to obey.

“Yeah. Puck. And you're Veronica?”

Because maybe she's just the secretary. Or the hot younger sister. A strip-a-gram?

“Yup. Sorry buddy. You still good?”

Fuck yes, he wants to say. I'm very, very good, but then he realises she's probably talking about the interview. The reason he's here. The job that sounded freaking interesting and pretty much tailor made for him.

He'd been drifting since Finn died; didn't have the heart to finish college without him there. For Coach Beiste, he talked a good game, but when he'd looked into the Air Force, and even the naval academy, flying planes turned out to be something for people with more book learning than he had. He'd fallen into the EMT course, and surprised himself by being good at it, but he's sick of mopping up blood and guts.

And then he'd seen the ad. “Muscle wanted. Must have friends in low places, and the ability to talk your way out of dangerous situations.”

Well, he'd gotten outta that elevator alive, hadn't he? Maybe he should ask her gangsta boyfriend for a reference.

And that's when the dude bursts through the door behind him, motorcycle boots clunking on the floor and arms full of helmet and leather jacket and a battered leather satchel, running at the mouth with a bunch of apologies for being late. Blondie just harrumphs and introduces him like they've never seen each other before.

“Noah Puckerman, meet my partner, Eli Navarro. Eli, this is Puck.”

And goddamn, the woman's got a good pokerface because she manages to hold it together all the way through her boy dropping his helmet in shock, and looking from her to him, back to her again, gaping in astonishment.

Puck can see her shoulders shaking with the effort not to laugh, but Blondie simply walks towards her office, then looks back at them both, and tilts her head. “Well, then?”

“You gotta be kiddin' me,” Navarro mutters, but pushes past Puck to clank his way into the office.

“After you,” Veronica smiles, and if there's one thing he knows about women like that, it's the fact that mere mortals like himself are expected to jump to attention, and enjoy doing it.

“Yes, ma'am,” he finds himself saying, walking obediently into her inner sanctum.


	2. Touchdown

“So. Would that be something that interests you?”

Puck's a little shell shocked. His ass had barely hit the seat before she traded her knowing smirk for a relentless efficiency that left him reeling. Three offices – Palo Alto, LA, and somewhere down south called Neptune. Fourteen full time investigators working across the three locations. Six tech specialists. More than a thousand clients each year.

Lady's earned her classy, it 's obvious. But …

“Why the hell do you want me?”

He has a suspicion – Navarro doesn't exactly fit into that little sketch of upwardly mobile – but the answer isn't what he's expecting. (Something he's learning about Veronica Mars? She deals in questions rather than answers.)

“You play the guitar. How well?”

He blinks. “Ah. For what – like, fun? Or for a job? Are we talking spare change on Venice Beach, or halftime at the Superbowl?”

“Which of those excites you more?” she asks, saccharine sweet. Something in her tone makes him feel as if he's on a shrink's couch, and it gets his back up. Sure, he's been there a time or two, and might even be willing to admit it helped, but right now, he's here to talk about a job.

“So -”

“Ever been on stage, Puck?”

“Maybe. Some.” It'd never made it onto his resume, the whole Glee thing. That was private.

“Talent show? High school musical? Karaoke?” Navarro questions, and Puck bristles at the scorn in his voice.

“Glee Club. National champions one year,” he retorts before he can tell himself to cool it. Goddamn pride.

“Glee? So – you can sing, too? And dance?” He nods reluctantly and the boss lady exchanges a long look with her squeeze, then returns her attention to his CV. “Anything else that's not on here you'd like to mention?”

Two stints in juvenile detention isn't usually something he brings up with prospective employers, but he's getting the idea this isn't just any job. Still ...

“What'd you mean by friends in low places? Talk your way out of trouble and stuff?”

“Having a wide range of contacts proves useful in the detective business,” Veronica answers primly. “And if there's anything you need to be able to do, it's think on your feet.”

Navarro huffs out a laugh. “She means you need to be able to a spin a line of primo bullshit.”

The blonde lifts an elegant shoulder, unapologetic. “Your safety can depend on it. Better not to get caught, but if you do – no blushing and stammering.”

Puck can see Navarro lounging back against the wall out of the corner of his eye, and hopes to hell his instinct is right.

“I got in some trouble in school. They put me somewhere that got me in even bigger trouble, and if I could talk fast before I went in… ”

Her smile is a slow gotcha. His record is sealed, no way she can possibly know, but who's he kidding? He had Navarro pegged, and that's probably a two way street. And now she doesn't have to ferret it out.

Puck looks away, and catches Navarro in a grimace. Dude’s obviously got some less than stellar memories of his own. There’s something new in those black hole eyes - not sympathy, exactly, but an acknowledgement of what it means to have survived juvie. Memories you need to lock away, and instincts you never quite lose.

Time to run with the ball.

He returns his attention to the boss lady, then slips back into the skin of that angry, fucked up kid, who had one golden skill. “So. Yeah. Dialed it back, made a few friends, learnt to shut my mouth when I needed to. But I had this speciality, see ...” he smiles, then, and – moment of fucking _genius_ – gives her back her own head tilt. “Talking really hot girls into bed. Or my truck. Or the supply closet.”

Puck licks his lips and lets his gaze drift down her body. He's a fucking flirt, and they're gonna have to be able to deal with that, even if what happened in the elevator never gets mentioned again. And as for that ...

"So is this - going down?" he asks, and yeah. Bullseye.

He hears the catch in her breath before her lips twist into tight little smile tries to convince him it didn't happen. Even if she's got the world's best poker-face, nature's not playing her game, not with eyes that shift from almost grey to that dark, indigo-blue. Right now, she's back in that elevator, and the sudden movement behind him tells him Navarro is too.

"Oh, we'd certainly like it to be," she trills, and _fuck_ , she's turned it right back on him. There's nothing in that chirpy voice to suggest all the kinky things he's imagining, but the gleam in her eye, and that head tilt - he's half hard and she's just talking about a job. He thinks. Maybe.

He wonders what she would'a been like in high school. Good looking enough to be a Quinn, but as prickly as she is, something about her tells him no. Maybe it’s the Latino boyfriend sitting three feet away while you flirt with his girl, his good sense yells.

Puck shoots a panicked glance towards Navarro to find him fighting back a grin.

“Our very own Don Juan? You learn that in juvie?" he sneers. "And to think I came out picking locks. But then, jefe of the PCH? I didn't need to do no fast talking,” he smirks.

Puck's spent enough time with Santana to know what a jefe is, and add in the tattoos and the bike gear, he’s thinking the PCH must be some sort of gang. It fits. There's something about the Latino that screams ready for command, and he's certainly scary enough. But …

“So how'd you end up here, then?”

Navarro shrugs. “Skinny white girl needed someone to watch her back. I was qualified.”

“I am not skinny, I am petite,” Veronica interrupts. “Despite his obviously lacking observation skills, Eli did manage to become a fully qualified private investigator. Would you be willing to take the PI exam?”

Puck freezes. “Would I have to?”

“Not straight away, it's not a condition of employment or anything, but if you were interested in a future with us long term, taking the lead on your own cases, that sort of thing – it'd be a good idea. Looks pretty on the business card and all that.”

She smiles as if those outcomes are a foregone conclusion. Puck's getting the job, that smile says, and she may as well start measuring him for a desk right now. He shifts in his seat and looks away, as if he's thinking about her offer. He suspects he's grinning like a fool.

He'd come in expecting to talk about being some sort of standover man, and is gonna walk out with something a hell of a lot more permanent. Maybe even useful.

“My guitar playing was always hell of a lot better than my schoolwork, but I'm willing to give it a try,” he says. “Stuff you're doing – sounds interesting.”

Veronica grins as she pushes a pile of paperwork his way.

“Standard confidentiality agreement. Sign here, and here,” she indicates with efficient taps of her pen. “And then, Mr Puckerman, we can tell you exactly how interesting.”

Her words remind him that he should have asked about the money, but there's something familiar twisting in his gut, something he didn't even realise he'd been missing. He and Finn, sitting side-by-side in the dressing rooms, waiting to run onto the field. Standing in the wings with the Gleeks, ready to kick some showchoir ass. He's gonna take that pass and run it wide and hit every note so fuckin' hard even Berry won't complain.

Noah Puckerman, PI, he scrawls on the dotted line, and it feels like a fucking touchdown.


	3. Just your basic skip

Your basic skip, Veronica had said.

Basic, Puck thinks viciously. Basic! The crazy woman had him pinned against a wall, her bulk making it impossible to move, even if he didn't have a goddamn knife hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his balls. 

“Scum filth rapist pig! You think you can take this? You think you can just follow a woman down the street and take what you want?” his skip screams, half deafening him in the process.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I was just ...” 

“You was just what? 'Bout to rape me? Following a girl into an alley as she take a shortcut? I know what you was about to do, boy!”

A nice old lady for your first, Veronica had grinned. Mrs Horan, sixty-eight, one too many DUIs. He and Navarro had smelled the brandy as she shuffled past, and figured they should stop her before she got into the old Buick, but then Eli's phone had buzzed as they were getting out of the car.

Stay here, he'd said, but she was just an old biddy, Puck had decided. A basic skip. He could handle her.

Vilma Horan moves the knife away from his crotch to swing her purse at his head. 

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” 

“Vilma! Don't hurt him,” Navarro's voice suddenly rings out, and Puck's going to stomp the dude if he doesn't stop laughing.

“Seriously. He's one of ours. I told him not to let you into your car.”

The woman stops hitting him, but she's still crushing him against the wall. Puck can sense her wariness, and it occurs to him that maybe she's not wrong. Maybe following women down dark streets – even if they had parked there in the first place – wasn't much of an idea.

“I'm sorry ma'am,” he croaks, then fills his lungs with air as she pulls herself off him. He turns around slowly, hands high as if he's under arrest.

“Uh – I didn't mean to scare you. Sorry,” he apologises again, and catches Navarro's approving nod out of the corner of his eye. “But we have this warrant ...”

“Warrant? Piffle. A respectable woman like me? You've got the wrong person, buddy.”

He squints at the piece of paper and then back at her.

“Says here you tried to beat up a policeman when he pulled you over.”

“I would never ...”

He almost chokes.

“beat someone up with your handbag? Nah, you crazy cow. Can't believe that at all!” he snaps, grabbing her arm and frogmarching her towards their car.

Suddenly Navarro is there, all smiles for the old bat, offering her his arm and turning the whole thing into a Sunday stroll. 

“Kids today! Sorry about that Mrs H. Puckerman's just new at this,” he soothes. 

“But he said I was a … a … criminal!” the old woman splutters. 

“Gotta be a misunderstanding down at the courthouse. We'll just reschedule your date, and you'll be home in time for your shows.”

Puck stomps around to the opposite side of the car, and sits in resentful silence as Navarro helps Mrs Horan into the back of the sedan. His nerves are jangled and raw – she beat him up with a fucking purse! - but he can't quite figure out why his spine is still prickling with unease. Probably because his boss is acting like a such a pussy, he sneers to himself.

He's gotta admit, though, the guy is fucking smooth. Didn't take Navarro more'n a few minutes before she was putty in his hands. Once they get to the courthouse, he trails behind them to see how it's done, and watches in amazement as Navarro charms his way through three file clerks and a grizzled public defender.

Vilma Horan actually blows Navarro a kiss as she's led off for processing, and he offers her a wide smile and a fucking finger wave.

Puck's still sniggering as they work their way back down the courthouse steps and across the street to where they'd left Navarro's car. 

“So, what's the deal with -” 

Puck never finishes the sentence. Navarro slams him against the side of the car, fist twisted up in his shirt and eyes blazing with anger. 

“What the fuck?”

“We're not the police. You don't get to treat people like that, let alone harmless ladies like Mrs H. Consider this your first and last warning.”

Navarro punctuates his words with lunge that slams their chests together, their faces inches apart as he spits out his threats. His breath is warm on Puck's face, shockingly sweet, some weird part of him insists on noticing even as his fists ball with anger. 

“Get off me,” Puck snarls, aggression racing through him as he tries to push the older man away. He's on fire, Puck thinks incongruously, his entire body burning up. Navarro holds on for a long second more, then backs away slowly, never once releasing his gaze.

Anyone else would be in the fucking ground by now, Puck fumes. Why didn't he just drop the motherfucker? Sure as hell nothing to do with the fact that it's his boss. And he's never had enough self control to hold off just because someone might kick his ass.

Their eyes clash once more over the bonnet of the car before they both look away, and something inside of him clenches.

Hell no, Puck thinks. It's just anger. He's fucking outraged.

Not that other thing. Not for a dude.

Not even one who's more badass than he is. 

*

He forces himself to laugh about it, later. Veronica produces a bottle of tequila from inside a filing cabinet and they make a toast, full of congratulations for breaking his cherry. Then Navarro describes Puck's “takedown” in excruciating detail to Veronica, who starts out with raised eyebrows but collapses into a fit of the giggles when Eli gets to the part about Mrs Horan bashing him with her handbag.

“Had to set him straight, after,” he says casually, and Puck nods in rueful acceptance. That's all it was. He gets that now. And as far his wild speculation that something else might have been going on, that he's going to ignore.

Not like he doesn't have enough on his plate. The first week flies by in a blur of new information, the practical stuff dwarfed by his study load when he agrees to do the PI exam. He barely scrapes through, which makes him feel about two inches tall since Veronica had drilled him every night, two weeks straight, to help him pass the damn thing. He learned that she likes her coffee milky and sweet, Navarro's nickname is Weevil, like the bug, and he never wants to look at the laws of the State of the California ever again.

“It's a pass!” she insists when he suggests retaking the damn thing. “Grab it and run because tomorrow, the real work starts,” she congratulates him, her lips lingering on his cheek long enough to make him wonder where Navarro is. Not far away, he finds, watching them from the doorway to the kitchen, shot glasses in hand and smirk on his face.

He'd already been helping Veronica out with the backgrounders – building a good file is the key to an investigation, she insists – and done a few ridealongs with Weevil, observing on stakeouts. He hasn't had to play his guitar for anyone, yet, and when he asks about that, she shrugs and says the contract hasn't come through yet. It's fine, though, she snorts. They'll train him up on the real cases.

He spends a lot of his time shuffling paper for Weevil, who moves between LA and the office further south, and there's always the dirty pictures business when they get bored. Veronica teaches him how to use the camera herself, and he spends more than a few nights sitting outside cheap hotels photographing stupid people and their even stupider hook-ups.

On the bigger cases, he and Weevil work together, with Veronica pulling the strings from back in the office. She's like the spider sending her minions scuttling out into her web, he jokes, making Weevil laugh out loud, amused but rueful. 

“Wasn't always like that,” he explains. “Took years to convince her to let me back her up. Always preferred to go it alone.” He shakes his head, and Puck can hear his exasperation. “But she's a control freak, too – has to have everything exactly how she wants it. And with the business getting so big …”

Puck nods in understanding. Veronica Mars isn't about to let anyone else call the shots at Mars Investigations.

“Don't ever fucking forget, though – she's the master at this stuff. It's been her life since she was 15 years old, and there is nobody better at it than she is.”

“Even in the field?”

Weevil turns to glare at him. “Especially in the field. That girl hates being stuck in the office. And she's forgotten things that you and I haven't even learned yet. She was the best even before the FBI got their hands on her.”

“Do you mean -”

Weevil cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Shouldn't have said it. Didn't work out with them, and V doesn't talk about it. So keep it to yourself,” he warns.

Puck swallows – his boss was former FBI! – and returns his attention to the apartment they're watching across the street. Four weeks in, and he's graduated to the big leagues. No half-baked skip, this. A missing girl, and the LAPD had told her mother to go home and wait for her to turn up.


	4. Scary good

They'd actually been talking about the case he'd been recruited for when the phone rang. Entertainment company, yadda yadda, looking for bodyguards that can blend right into the background – or, as Veronica's plan had it, the backing band.

“She's an up and coming young singer – done a bit of musical theatre, just about to release her first album. But she's already managed to attract the wrong sort of attention … what is it, Mandy? She asked for me by name? Yeah, put it through.”

Happy briefing Veronica turns into deathly still Veronica in front of his eyes. Puck could see her struggling to maintain her calm, measured tones as the sound of broken sobs intruded into the room; the information she extracted had Weevil pacing even before she hung up the phone.

“Missing girl,” she says helplessly, and Navarro moves behind her to massage her shoulders.

“How old?”

“Fourteen. She's just fourteen!” Veronica bit out, and while no one liked the reality of missing kids, Puck could see a gaping hole there, a loss that still ached and festered.

“They reported it?”

“Yeah. The usual.”

“Useless fuckers,” Navarro had cursed, his hands still tugging at her hair and smoothing their way down her arms. Veronica leans into him for a moment, then opens her laptop, banging her notes into the brief with astonishing speed. Forty minutes later, she hands him the brief.

“All hands on deck, Puckerman. You ready for this?” 

He wasn't, not really, but he's too green to know that yet. Instead, he nods and tries not to feel excited about someone else's tragedy.

Mrs Lopez worked nights, and two days ago she'd come home to find no sign of her fourteen-year-old daughter, Talia, she tells them.

“So where do you start?” Veronica had asked him, then waited expectantly.

“Uh – last known sighting?” He flicked through the file to find the name he'd seen. “So, we go talk to this Johnny Scalzi?”

She had shaken her head, face grim. “No. Research first. Who's Johnny Scalzi?”

He'd frowned at her, non-plussed. “Uh – the guy who saw her last?” 

Veronica raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. That, he had learnt, was rarely a good sign for her poor victim. “Try again.”

He pulled up Mrs Lopez' statement and reread it, looking for where she had mentioned Scalzi. “Oh – he's her ex. And he was the last person to report seeing the girl.” His mouth twisted in automatic concern.

“Bingo. First rule of detective work – it's nearly always the boyfriend. Or the step-dad. So that's where you two are going to start. The how, what, why and where of Johnny Scalzi.”

He's starting to wonder if he's fallen into an ep of SVU – surely the police should be the ones taking on these sorts of cases – when she blasts his apprehension away with cheerleader shimmy and a megawatt smile.

“ And ….. there's TOYS!” she trills, opening a cupboard full of electronic gadgets.

“My partner Mac – don't think you've met her yet, works out of Seattle? - well, she's been reinventing the earbud. No wires; closed circuit between these transmitters, so no one can listen in, and best of all – no one sees you're wearing it. And if you take this part out … it can be used as a bug and transmitted to whoever else is wearing it. So?” She hands him the small, padded case, one eyebrow cocked to prompt a response.

“So – we bug him. Find some way to get this on him, and follow in range.”

She nodded her approval, and fuck, that might even have been pride on her face. “And you keep him in sight at all times. If he's got her, we're gonna find her.” 

“And then we call the police?”

“Nah, too early. They won't even let Ms Lopez file a missing persons report yet. And they already think she's just another junkie runaway ...” 

“Latina junkie runaway,” Weevil stresses.

“Another Latina junkie runaway who'll turn up some day,” Veronica finishes with a grimace. 

“So – we're going find her?” Puck says doubtfully, and Veronica looks at him as if he's the one holding the girl hostage. 

“We find her, and put their case together, and maybe the LAPD will pull finger enough to charge whoever we decide is responsible,” she says curtly. 

Weevil runs a calming hand over her hair, and takes the earbuds from Veronica without another word. 

“Coming, partner?”

And as awful as it fucking is to be looking for a missing kid, it makes him smile, because yeah, that's him.

*

“Get your ass back here, El,” Weevil hisses into his earbud, but they've been tailing Scalzi for weeks and its not just Talia Lopez they're looking for now. Three of them, the youngest barely nine, and they could be up there right now, praying for someone to get them out. All this waiting is driving him out of his mind, and if he can just get a look inside that apartment … 

“Puckerman!” his boss growls, and it pulls him up short. Weevil hasn't called him that since the night he got his licence, when a few shots of celebration turned into a raucous night with all three Robert Rodriguez movies and bottle of primo tequila. He'd been drunk enough play along to one the musical numbers, and they'd been calling him El Mariachi - and mostly just El - ever since.

Not tonight, apparently. 

“Get back in the fucking car!” 

It's a mental slap, forcing Puck to slink back to the cover of the alley, and work his way back through the shadows to find the old rattletrap they've been using for this job. He slides into the beatup Chevy, and Weevil doesn't even look at him, still tracking their quarry through his binoculars.

“Sorry, dude,” Puck says quietly, and Weevil gives him a contemptuous middle finger without ever looking at him. Hostility hangs in the hair for a good half hour before the Scalzi comes back out the door and heads for his car, parked a few spaces up the alley. He drives off, and Weevil puts the binocs down to follow him.

And tear Puck a new one.

“Was I speaking Spanish when I said we were tailing this mofo? Or were you too busy looking down V's shirt to listen?” he says mockingly. “Maybe's its coz you're just too fucking dumb to know what I meant? Let me break it down for you - we stay outta sight. He doesn't know we're here. THEN he takes us to wherever it is he's stowed the kid. Entiendes?”

Puck's hackles shoot up at familiar insult. “I could have had him! It's not like we're cops; we could make him tell us where she is. Why are we treating a fucking pedo with kid gloves?” he demands, disgust boiling over.

Weevil shoots a glance his way as they turn towards the freeway. It's that moment of split attention, more than anything else, that reminds Puck they're still on the job – he fixes his eyes back on the subject's Beemer. “He's heading for Sunset, I reckon.”

“Back towards his office? We searched that place from top to bottom,” Weevil frowns, then snaps back to the topic at hand. The anger is gone, though, and his voice is almost sympathetic. “These cases, the ones with the real assholes – they're the most dangerous for guys like us.” 

Puck scoffs. “I could take that piece of shit with one hand tied behind my back. So could you – and there's two of us.”

“Yeah, and I still carry a knife and you're pretty fucking deadly with those fists of yours. And I was watching you when you looked at those pictures, El. You wanted to fuckin' crush him when you saw what he did to the last kid.”

He doesn't bother to deny it. “It was just my sister and I and my mom, growing up. He's not the first guy to think single moms are the route to the promised land, y'know?” 

“My ma was a junkie. Died when I was six. Me and my sisters, we bounced around a bit before they found my Abuela,” Weevil says dully. “I know, El. Trust me. You hit that guy? Or I do? We don't stop. We don't stop, and it's us who end up in jail, not the fucking sicko.”

The truth of it is so inescapable that it stills the breath in his lungs. He would have. He hasn't lost control like that in years – not since Finn's funeral, in fact – but tonight, on too much caffeine and too little sleep, the pervert's dirty photos playing like a horror film in the back of his mind, he would have.

“So we just watch?”

“And follow him. And photograph whoever he talks to. And find out where he's stashed the girls. We're being paid to find Talia, not to punish him, but trust me. V's got that one covered.” 

Weevil doesn't say any more, but he doesn't have to, either. He hasn't seen Veronica in action yet, but people have been falling all over themselves to tell him what she can do.

V is for vendetta, he'd heard Detective Johansen joke when they'd taken Puck in to introduce him round at the station. Nobody had laughed, though. Turns out they were all scared shitless of his tiny, blonde boss.

And he might be a badass private dick these days, but he's still Noah Puckerman, and it's getting harder and harder to deny. Scary has always done it for him. Pure biological fact, that, and the way people shake when Veronica Mars struts into the room … yeah. It's sexy. 

But then there's the way Navarro's chin juts out when he's steamed, and his eyes go impossibly black. That assessing glance from under his lashes, and the liquid voice that gets deeper and darker before he strikes. Eli Navarro is so many kinds of scary, Puck's been trying not to think about him. But it's not working.

Puck doesn't know what that means. Though he's willing to admit it's more that he doesn't _want_ to know. It's no help when he can't look at one without seeing the other, and at night … he's back in that elevator, over and over again.

This time, though, he isn't keeping his hands to himself. Nor are they, and when he wakes sticky with sweat and cum, it's to the memory of two pairs of eyes, and two sets of hands. A breathy feminine whisper and a throaty masculine groan. A juicy, fragrant pussy, and so help him Jew God, an iron hard cock.

And he's hard again, and taking himself in hand again, because, _damn_. Scary never felt so good.


	5. On the down low

They're three days into the Lopez case, and he's about to jump out of his skin. All they do is watch, and follow, and take a shitload of photographs, Weevil lecturing him the whole fucking time about the need to keep it on the down low. But when a thin wail breaks the foul air outside the old abattoir, they don't even look at each other.

They charge.

Puck would have thought some level of subterfuge was required, but Weevil breaks through the rickety door with a few furious kicks, and they barrel into the place in a desperate hunt for whoever it was that made that despairing sound.

The girls are huddled together in the corner of the filthiest room he's ever seen, dark messes of something awful fouling the floor and the walls, and the smell rising to make his eyes water. Scalzi is bent over them, fat fingers tearing at the smallest girl's clothes, her pretty Sunday dress pushed up above bright yellow panties. An older girl, a teenager who might even Talia Lopez under those livid bruises, is pushing the man away, slapping at him and begging.

“Leave her alone! She's too little!” she says, and the resignation in her voice stops Puck in his tracks. Weevil doesn't stop, though.

Weevil speeds up, and slams his full bodyweight into Scalzi, pushing him past the girls into a pit of something vile. There's a taser in his hand, but he doesn't even bother to arm it. Instead, he slams it into the side of the man's head, efficiently ridding him of consciousness.

“Puck. Call the police,” he says in monotone. “You want to report a bashing.” 

He does as he's told then wades into the fray next to Weevil, lifting him out of the muck while Weevil uses a cable tie to secure the sicko's hands behind his back. 

The three girls are watching was huge eyes, but there's nothing in their faces to suggest they realise they've been rescued. “You'll be alright,” Puck says haltingly, and Weevil throws him a dark look.

“We'll get you all home to your mamas as soon as we can,” he says softly, and that's when Puck notices the way he's moving … slowly, and carefully, as if they are deer about to take fright.

“Now, the cops are going to be here soon. Lots of noise, and they might want to talk to you. _Policia, entiendes?_ So it's gonna be bright and noisy in here for a little bit, but you hang in there, right?”

When the black-and-whites arrive, the guy in charge takes one look at Weevil and waves the others away.

“Eli Navarro, esquire! What's doing?” he questions, Jersey accent thick with surprise. 

“Found this guy trying to interfere with the little girl. Stopped him.” Weevil says shortly, but his heavy stare is saying a lot more than that. He's getting it back, too, the detective cocking his head as if trying to read Weevil's mind. Puck figures they know each pretty well, because the guy eventually nods.

“Huh. Kids gonna back you on that?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But he will,” Weevil says, nodding towards Puck.

Puck stands straighter, and nods his agreement. He's not fucking wild about being interrogated by the police, but the idea of this pedo walking free makes him sick.

“Yeah. We'd been trying to find Talia,” he says dumbly, then wonders if that's something he's supposed to share. 

The battered teenager raises her head. She still looks a million years old, but there's something new in her eyes. Puck sees the moment Weevil kicks himself.

“That's right, niña. Your mama's looking for you. I'm gonna call her right now, get her over here.”

Talia's long, wracking sobs break his fucking heart, but something else clicks. This is it. He feels dirty from just being in the same room as that piece of shit, but he's doing something good. Getting those kids away from him. It's worth doing.

He remembers Weevil's soft voice, and slow, easy movements, and walks over to her side. “Not gonna let anyone hurt you anymore,” he says. “Not gonna let them hurt any of you.”

And that's the promise that holds him through three hours of smelling like he'd been swimming in shit, two hours of questioning down at the station, and an hour of trailing round to house after house in the barrio, watching the police get the credit for returning their kids.

The way the last little girl had gotten out of the police car, and immediately turned around to find them, one car back. He and Weevil both raised a hand to wave goodbye, completely in sync, and her relieved grin had left them on a high.

“Good result,” Navarro says casually, and Puck gets it, he really does. It's what they do, no big deal. But for him, it kind of is. They'd been careful and professional and badass as shit, and they'd got the bad guy – he wants to shout it from the fucking rooftops.

Instead he holds up his hand and waits. Navarro rolls his eyes, but gives him some skin anyway.

“Yeah, you did good, kid. Eventually. Let's get outta here and into something that doesn't stink, and then we can sink a glass or two of Cuervo to mark the fact that you don't totally suck.”

“Asshole,” Puck says contentedly, and doesn't even try to hide his grin as they prowl back through the sleeping streets of LA towards the office.

*

Puck's body is still tight with adrenaline when they traipse up the stairs, deciding not to risk the lift. They leave their boots in the hallway outside the door, but still manage to drip mud and filth all over the fancy wooden floors. Veronica takes one look at the trail of destruction and sends them straight upstairs. 

Puck knows they have an apartment on the top floor – bit to fucking close to work if you ask him – but he's never been there before. Weevil has set up a big room downstairs as a rec room come staff lounge, and the upstairs apartment is their private domain. Puck looks around with interest, interested to find that instead of the cold, minimalist space he had expected, it's actually a mishmash of styles, the overall effect hitting him as warm and colourful.

Weevil catches his surprise and smiles wryly. “Not what you expected?”

“Guess you have to live here too, man. Maybe she doesn't have you completely pussy-whipped after all,” he jokes.

Weevil raises a single, questioning eyebrow. “Or maybe your assumptions are wrong. Gotta be careful with that shit. Get you in trouble around here.”

Puck's pretty damn sure there's a serious warning in that, but he's not sure what it is yet, so he simply follows Navarro through the living room and into the bedroom beyond. At the far end is the most astonishing bathroom he's ever seen.

It's not much smaller than entire studio, with a full-sized spa nestled under the window at one end, and a glassed in shower space at the other. Weevil leans in to turn on the biggest showerhead he's ever seen; the water gushes out to flow over a long stone bench positioned directly underneath.

“J-money! What do you two DO in here? Swim laps?” he blurts, and then gapes as Weevil's coppery face flushes dark red. Understanding hits him like sledgehammer.

“Fuckin' A,” Puck breathes, transfixed by what he's already thinking of as the love seat. God dammit. Now he's got a problem, because he can't look at the damn thing without seeing Veronica bent over it, or Weevil working her over his lap. On her back. That's what he'd do – make her stretch out on her back, legs wide apart, the taste of her pussy sinking into his every pore as the hot water streamed down over them both. And Weevil, Weevil would ...

Puck gulps and looks away from where Weevil is dropping his clothes on the floor of the shower.

“Rinse 'em in here and you might be able get rid of the smell,” he's saying doubtfully. “Jesus – strip. I can't stand the stench anymore.” 

Weevil casts a glance his way, then takes another, longer look at him. Puck just stands there, mouth slack with lust. Cock poking relentlessly at his mud-soaked chinos. If he wasn't so embarrassed, he'd congratulate himself on finally being able to make Weevil lose his cool.

“Oh,” is all he says, but his eyes travel down to take a good, long look, and fuck, he's not supposed to respond to that sort of attention from another dude. He's _really_ not supposed to notice Weevil's own cock rising in response, thicker and darker than his own, and nearly as long.

Puck whips his shirt over his head then, purely to force himself to look away. It's not like it's the first time he's been naked in the shower with another man. Naked, and hard, and wet, and there's probably soap in here somewhere, even if soap bubbles aren't exactly the kind of slippery they'd need. He forces his mind away from that line of thought, hand shaking as he releases the button on his muddy pants.

All he has to do is take a step forward, then another, until he can feel the heat of Weevil's body next to him, under the rush of water. He doesn't have to take himself in hand and tug, eyes locked with Weevil's. Doesn't have to grow larger, breathe faster, as the other man's cock rises to full mast, and the pink head emerges from it's dark sleeve of flesh. He makes a sound of protest when Weevil encloses it in his own fist - he hasn't ever seen an uncut cock up this close, not one he wanted to see, anyway. Not without the knowledge that any sign of weakness, and that cock would end up gagging him, or shoved up his asshole whether he wanted it or not. 

Right now, he wants to see, and his mouth goes dry as a small pearl of pre-cum gathers on Weevil's tip. Puck struggles with a completely unfamiliar urge - he wants to taste it, wants to feel it smear his fingers, wants to drop to his knees and swallow him down. Instead, he reaches out, heart thumping in his ears, and traces his fingers over the ornate tattoo that covers Weevil's hip.

“What'chu doing, dawg?” 

In that moment, Weevil sounds exactly like the gangbanger Puck knows he once was. It's not enough to make him pull back his hand. And Weevil's not moving away either, throwing his head back to catch Puck's gaze with half-mast eyes. He has no idea what the other man sees, but it makes him reach out too, nails raking over Puck's pecs, making him jerk as they pass over the ragged flesh where his nipple ring used to be.

“You like it both ways? Because if you do, now would be a really good time to tell me.”

And the bizarre thing is, he's still not sure. He wants to – _fuck_ he wants to – but there's something stopping him. Maybe it was the constant threat in juvie, all the catcalls about his pretty mouth and tight ass. Maybe it's all the things he thinks about as 'gay' – not bad, not after years of hanging with Kurt and Blaine, but not him, either. But that's the thing. Weevil isn't about to hold him down on the floor of the shower, or try to turn him into some sort of girlyman. They'd just fuck. And it'd probably be good.

Puck swallows and sends up a prayer to the Jew God. Now, he suggests, would be a really good time to figure this shit out.


	6. Not so different

So here's the thing. He likes the way sweaty skin feels under his hand, and the way a bite after an hour of kisses can make someone lose it. He loves pushing inside, the wetness and friction and slippery glory of it all. He loves the tastes, the sounds, the mindlessness of a really good fuck. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he probably knew he didn't care much about how he got there.

It's a big jump, though, from “likes fucking” to “fucks other guys.”

He winces, remembering the crap he used to give Kurt and Blaine. The way he'd bleat “no homo” whenever he so much as touched anyone. That cocksure idiot, so convinced he knew everything. Three years later, he knows he couldn't even have dreamed someone like Weevil, or this bitchin' shower, or feelin' so fucking good about himself that he'd just want to roll with it.

And now that he's getting over the shock – yeah. Some guys do it for him. Sure as hell not Kurt or Blaine, but maybe Finn. When he did his goofy “we're here now, let's go out there and win!” schtick, yeah, maybe. Mike, who you think is kinda quiet and serious, but then he pulls some weirdass dance shit, and you realise he's badass as fuck. Sam, and Sam's mouth. (Maybe he had thought about a little).

But this is about 50 miles past thinking about it. This is Weevil hot under his hand, and Puck's cock quivering for attention every time Weevil drags in a breath.

No homo, Puck thinks savagely as he explores hard slabs of muscle over skin as soft and hairless as any girl. When he strokes his fingers sideways, Weevil's belly tightens, and Puck gets to feel the growl that rises somewhere deep in his chest.

“ _Dios mio_.” Those black eyes slip closed for a moment, and he surges forward, slamming his hands onto the wall behind Puck. “El! You into this?”

He is. He really, really is, Puck realises. And if Weevil needs him to admit it ...

“Fuck yeah,” he croaks, his vocal chords choked with lust. It's okay though. He's done talking, or trying to think. 

Puck lurches forward to sink his teeth into Weevil's neck, tasting motor oil and well-worn leather underneath the soap. He basks in the other man's moan – dudes aren't so different after all – then reels backwards as Weevil slams their bodies together from necks to knees, cocks mashed between them.

“You wanna be in charge, surfer boy? Yeah? Ain't gonna fucking happen,” Weevil rasps, pure aggression hammering into every pleasure centre in Puck's brain. He tries to answer, but Weevil has worked a hand between them and found Puck's cock. Goodbye higher brain function. 

He can feel every callous on the man's hand, and there's no gentleness in it, no sign of the exasperated but patient mentor that guided him through the bust just hours ago. Instead, Weevil's jerking him hard, taking him somewhere he's never fucking been before – an orgasm crashing down so fast, he can't fucking breathe. Madness is building behind his eyelids and Weevil is hissing in his ear – promises? Threats, maybe?

The world turns golden, full of _don't care, don't care, don't care_ as he erupts, cum striping Weevil's chest and even shooting past him to hit the wall. Puck's about to apologise, just searching for the words, when Weevil drops to his knees and starts to lick him clean. Puck's already wobbly legs start to shake in earnest and fuck – he's hard again, so fast it's embarrassing.

He can feel Weevil chuckle around his cock, tongue sliding over the vein underneath, then up to tickle around his helmet, as if mapping its contours.

“Weird,” he mumbles, and Puck's head slams back against the tile.

“Jewish,” Puck pants. “Haven't you seen one like this before?”

Weevil lets him go with a pop and rises to his full height to sneer up into Puck's face. 

“Seen 'em. Sucked 'em. Turned them around and fucked 'em,” he drawls, the challenge clear in his eyes.

Puck suddenly can't breathe, his predicament not helped by the way Weevil brackets his face between upraised arms and leans up to slide his tongue along Puck's lower lip. He opens his mouth on a sigh and is waiting – aching – for the touch of his lips when he realises Weevil has stopped, amusement lurking deep in those black eyes.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What about you, boy? What are you gonna do?”

He doesn't know. He's twelve again, feeling up Tessa Lang in detention, panicking about what happens after he's got his hand up her skirt. Fourteen, Mrs Delaney pushing him down her body and him wondering what the fuck he's supposed to do down there? Even as a kid, he hated feeling someone knew something he didn't, and made it his business to find out before anyone realised how dumb he was. 

It's probably where his habit of shoving things into overdrive comes from.

Puck reaches south to dandle his fingers along the length of Weevil's cock. He remembers the sanity-stealing satisfaction of that volcanic release, and wants to see Weevil succumb to that. He wants to make the other man lose his ever-present sneer, maybe even make him stutter. He wants … none of those things scare him, Puck realises. But what he really wants does.

He wants to be the one on his knees. Wants to be snarled at, pushed around a little. Wants …

Wants Weevil Navarro to fuck him raw.

His breath hisses out of his lungs at the admission, and the way Weevil backs off, he figures he must look poleaxed. He knows the guy wants him to say something, but Puck's always been way better at show than tell. He steps right into Weevil's space and closes his fist around that mysterious cock.

“Still figuring it out,” he confesses, even as he starts to jerk the guy. Weevil's eyes close on a groan as his hips buck into Puck's hand, and the luxurious fan of lashes over high cheekbones is so ridiculously beautiful that Puck has to pay it homage with his lips.

Weevil's gasp sounds so shocked that Puck freezes for a moment. “Do men even kiss?” flashes through his traumatised brain in the seconds before Weevil reaches up to attack his mouth, biting and nipping and scraping his teeth along the five o'clock shadow Puck wears permanently these days.

It's mostly curiosity that sends him to his knees, a tentative lick to get the lay of the land, so to speak. Cock, it turns out, tastes musky in the mouth, earthy. It's fucking uncomfortable bumping against his gag reflex, but the way Weevil is jamming his hips into Puck's face, and the sounds he is making … it'd take an act of God to make him stop.

Weevil's gonna be the one hit by a lightning bolt, Puck wants to smirk. Instead, he rakes his fingernails down the other man's flanks, then lets them bite deep into the globes of his ass. Fuck yes. Fuck, yes, he rejoices as Weevil's pained shout heralds the first spatters of cum onto his tongue.

He's not up for swallowing (not yet, he thinks almost guiltily), so replaces his mouth with a hand to wring every last drop from his mentor's body. Weevil shoots long and hard, body wracked with it, and Puck watches hungrily, until the point where he just has to touch again. The man is covered in tattoos, and he wants to know the stories behind them, his fingers drifting from one to the next as Weevil slumps against the wall in the wake of his orgasm.

The bulldog on Weevil's chest is particularly badass, but it's the tattoo that slashes dangerously close to his groin that grabs Puck's attention. It's a a jagged scar, he realises slowly, with an overlay of fancy letters. He tilts his head to read them, and knows it's her name even before he gets to the o.

Guilt slams through him, and he yanks his hand away. 

“What would -”

Weevil's voice is lower and huskier than Puck's ever heard it, but there's no guilt in it at all. He's amused, it sounds like. Maybe even titillated.

“My girl V? She'd be pissed at missing the show. Should we get her up here?”

“No need,” an unsteady feminine voice says from the other end of the steam-clogged room.


End file.
